The Value of Five Francs
by Ithilmir
Summary: An incident with three characters on a street in Montreuil and a lost coin. Originally written for the revolutionbut May Challenge 2006. Um, which is desperately late.


**A/N:** And the challenge was;_ "A five franc piece is lost. A five franc piece is found. Someone buys something they really needed. Someone doesn't buy something they really wanted. A third party observes and draws conclusions."_ It's taken this long to complete. Lazy girl.

* * *

Montreuil-sur-Mer – January, 1821

The inn on the corner of the Place de la Poissonerie, known as Mère Taillon's, was where the small but select police force of Montreuil-Sur-Mer chose to spend their off-duty hours. It was a tradition that dated back to a time before the past two Chiefs of Police and certainly before the present's posting here. Indeed, Inspector Javert was only the latest in a long line of superior officers to have the delights of the Face of the Madonna at his command.

Unusually amongst the people of Montreuil, Mère Taillon seemed to have a liking for Javert. Whilst she tended to put up with the rest of the men with a fond firmness (such was how she gained her title, for she was neither married nor a mother) Javert was the only one she would welcome at any hour of the day or night. Of course this sparked some rather interesting gossip; no one could remember Taillon being so accommodating with any of the officers, not even the dashing M. Ducroy, and considering both the Inspector and the landlady were in their forties the thing was not impossible… But even if the rumours were true, nothing definite so far seemed to have occurred, which although caused widespread disappointment amongst many a busybody, the more active whisperers did not admit defeat. However, despite any salacious gossip that may have come his way, Javert was very happy with this arrangement as it meant he could be certain of a warm welcome, good company – for Mère Taillon was a very amiable, quick-witted woman – and often enough a hot meal any time of the day or night _gratis_.

It was for this reason that at this particular moment the Inspector could be found standing outside the tavern next to the door, leaning nonchalantly against the drainpipe and occasionally sipping from a mug of wine. He had called in for his dinner, it being Tuesday when the house's speciality of mutton stew was served, and had decided to take a turn outside whilst waiting for his food to settle – and to escape the stench of Sergeant Dernis' foul tobacco. As he stood surveying the scenery, two figures caught his attention. One was a thin scarecrow of a young woman, a tattered shawl pulled around her skinny shoulders in an attempt to protect her from the chill afternoon air; the second was M. Madeleine, the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer.

At the sight of M. Madeline Javert could not help but give an involuntary sneer. There was something not wholly genuine about that man, and the activity he was currently engaged in did nothing to dissuade the Inspector's opinion. Montreuil may have been a prosperous town, but like any other it has its fair share of beggars, whores and ne'er-do-wells, and M. Madeleine was giving alms to the poor. In Javert's experience of the bourgeois the practice of actively seeking out vagrants was distinctly unusual, and this above all else made him highly suspicious of the mayor.

He had seen M. Madeline out and about like this before; walking around with his pockets purposefully stuffed with change just to empty them on his way to the mairie. The mayor was already regarded as a demi-saint by most of the population, his factories providing employment, his schools and hospitals taking care of what things money could not; but this never seemed to be enough for M. Madeleine. No, he had to be out on the streets, had to deal out charity with his own hands and see the expressions of endless gratitude for himself, join the mourning parties at funerals and let his heart bleed. Over and over Javert had asked himself why. It was not vanity – having seen first hand the mayor's Spartan living quarters he was certain of that – it was more like reassurance. The man gave away money, but by viewing those miserable wretches in distress he bought his own peace of mind. It was for this reason that Javert had concluded M. Madeleine's motives (if that was truly his name) were purely selfish; that guilt and need for absolution must be the driving force of this blind charity. Just what he was guilty of he had yet to discover.

It was from this train of thought that Javert's eyes turned to the girl. He had not seen her before; must be one of the many workers recently flocked to Montreuil to see if they could glean any benefit from Madeleine's benevolence. Clearly so far she had been unsuccessful, as no one on the receiving end of the mayor's charity tended to stay squalid for long. She was walking head bowed, seemingly lost in her own thoughts; the shawl pulled up over her short, scrubby blonde hair, a threadbare grey dress and a pair of old leather shoes all that stood between her and the elements. A pitiful sight, but one not unfamiliar. The poor were a constant fixture in society; two rounds of revolution and Empire had not been able to annihilate the problem, nor had countless philanthropists throughout history. Even in the Bible St. Matthew had claimed 'the poor will always be with you' (one of the few passages Javert did remember), so what difference Madeleine imagined one man could make he did not know. Any efforts on his part would only last as long as the man remained prosperous.

Just at this moment, the mayor was crouching next to a beggar woman and her child, talking to them quietly and patting the mother's hand gently. As he moved to stand a five franc piece fell carelessly from some tear in the lining of his coat, settling on a patch of half-melted snow; however, M. Madeleine seemed not to have noticed as he kept on walking, completely oblivious to the coin as it sat glittering in the slush. A few seconds later the girl in the grey dress arrived at the spot the mayor and the beggar woman had just vacated. At the sight of the shining silver object half-buried in snow the woman's face lit up; her eyes darting from side to side to check she was unobserved before she surreptitiously bent down and grabbed the coin, placing it in her bosom. From his vantage point Javert was certain she couldn't have seen where the stray piece had come from, and it was very likely that she couldn't believe her luck. Once more casting a wary glance around her, the girl disappeared down a side alley which lead to the baker's, Javert was gratified to see, and in the opposite direction to the bottle shop. At least she would not waste her money.

Whilst this was occurring, M. Madeleine had come across another vagrant – a middle-aged, one-legged man with a crutch – seated at the roadside. The mayor seemed pleased at finding another charitable case to shower with gold, and it was with an expression of sympathy and a friendly smile that he reached into his pocket; however this display of calm nobility suddenly disappeared from his features as his fingers met nothing but cloth. His face turned ashen.

Javert watched his reaction, fascinated and somewhat amused; taking something of a sadistic delight in the mayor's obvious distress. Madeleine's entire body was a picture of anxiety, fumbling in his coat pockets, digging in his trousers and waistcoat, but not a penny could he find to place in the beggar's hand. When all options had been exhausted he took the man's hand firmly, gazing into his eyes, earnestly promising to come back later with more change. Did he know the mairie? Then why not come round to his office, say four o'clock, and see him there? There he will have money. He would listen to his case then and do all he could to help. At each of these fevered promises Javert's expression darkened a shade more till he growled and shook his head in frustration. What was the matter with the man? What past crime had Madeleine committed that was so great it made him desperate to buy absolution? He was certain that he had met the mayor somewhere before, and most people Javert had met were not of the most desirable society. He had his suspicions, but in no way yet could he be sure; he had too little evidence, nothing concrete to sustain a denouncement, let alone secure a conviction. In the meantime he would have to wait, sit back and despair.

Javert sighed, shook his head once more and, draining his mug, went back inside the tavern.


End file.
